


Feral

by beyhr



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, Nonbinary Arya, the triumphant return of my bad habit of writing weird meditative fic in the middle of the night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-11 19:18:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19933171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beyhr/pseuds/beyhr
Summary: arya is nonbinary and ill die on this hill





	Feral

Arya settled against the snow-dusted brick, her cloak tucked under her to keep the snow from wetting her clothes. The Hound hardly acknowledged her presence, which she'd expected. It had been like this toward the end of their journey, she remembered— a comfortable silence would often fall over them. They'd truly understood each other by then. The Hound produced a wineskin from beneath his coat, took a drink, and set it down beside himself, conveniently close to her. She hesitated as she reached for it, watching his face for complaint, but he seemed to allow it. She held the vessel in her hands, looking down at it instead of at him. 

She started quietly, as she worked the cork out of the mouth, "Since we're all going to die, I want you to know something." She took a swig from his wineskin to dull her nerves. Any awkwardness had left their relationship long ago, but she had misgivings about the way this conversation would go.

"And what's that?" The Hound asked, not sounding particularly interested. It was unclear to her whether that disinterest was a comfort in the moment. It was certainly familiar, coming from him. She took a deep breath. 

In Braavos, she'd had a lot of time to think. Most of that time was filled by her all-consuming curiosity about the ways of the Faceless Men, but pieces here and there were left to self-reflection. 

She'd realized something, in recollections of her time masquerading as a boy, and now as no-one: she didn't feel at home under the term "girl", and she couldn't imagine being a "woman". At the same time, "boy" felt more like a costume than an identity. If there was any one part of being no-one she could really connect to, it was the ambiguity of her own gender. 

She thought about Jaqen. She thought of him as a man, but was he really? Jaqen wasn't even his real name, and she suspected he kept that particular appearance for her sake, rather than his own preference. He could have been anyone before, and could become anyone now. That was something she wanted, without the strings and red tape of this Faceless Man business. Was that so much to ask. 

She thought about her time with the Hound. She wasn't anyone then, in a different way than now. Just a dirty, nameless traveler— a son, a daughter, a ward, a squire. A companion of indeterminate everything. A feral beast to his tired brute. 

Animals don't need labels. A wolf doesn't dwell on it's gender and the implications therein. There are no implications. It just existed. It _was_. Arya wanted to _be_. No strings attached, no more costumes or masks. 

"I don't think I'm a girl," she said shakily. The Hound turned to her now, his unburnt eyebrow quirked. He said nothing, and she swallowed dryly. "...I'm not quite a boy either," she added, attempting to clear up any confusion. Still her companion remained silent. 

She didn't really expect him to understand. The specifics remained a mystery even to her, calling for some deep soul-searching she hadn't had the time for. But she knew one thing— she could never be the Lady of Winterfell, not in those words. 

"Alright," the Hound said finally. He crossed his arms and sighed. Arya held her breath, waiting for some admonishment or understanding. None came. He simply stared up at the dim stars, as he had been doing for the past hour or so. 

"That's it?" she said, incredulous, "No insults? Nothing?" 

"What? Do you want me to insult you?" He laughed, though it came out as more of a cough. "That's your business, not mine," he replied, shrugging, "I’ll have to find somethin’ else to call you besides "girl". Don't think I've ever called you by your name, not about to start now." 

She was a little surprised by this reaction. It seemed to be acceptance from every angle she approached it. She brought the wineskin to her lips again, the corners of her mouth curled in a little smile. She'd thank him if that was the way they interacted, but it wasn't. The sentiment was conveyed with silence, and her shoulder pressed against his.


End file.
